Goldman's Pharmacy
by JohnnyLurg
Summary: Mort feels just like a vegetable down on the pharm.


One Sunday morning in Quahog, Mort Goldman was standing behind the counter of his pharmacy, complaining as usual.

"Oh Gawd, why do those church bells have to be so awfully loud and piercing? Are they just trying to spite me for having my pharmacy open on a day on which all goyische pharmacies are closed? I hate that evil, piercing sound! It's such an angry sound, so unlike the peaceful soothing melodies of Jim Croce, who made the correct decision to convert to Judaism for his Jewish wife years before that horrible plane crash took his life and prevented us from hearing such peaceful soothing melodies as 'Bad Bad Leroy Brown' and 'I Got a Name!' Oy gevalt, why are there no customers? Would it be so much as to have one measly customer, be they that portly Spanish housecleaner Consuela with her voice like a sickly Chihuahua sighing, 'No, no,' until your sinuses feel like they're going to evaporate? Or that mustachioed fruit cup of a therapist Bruce who actually has many other jobs all over Quahog with his bleeding heart liberal attitude and assorted multicolored cats and coffee mugs? Oh Gawd, or even that slick, svelte half-Polish ladies' man Glenn Quagmire going 'giggity giggity giggity, let's have sex' as part of his happy little theme song with his pelvic thrusts and his 'alright' sexually charged shenanigans with Oriental women scurrying out of his many beds at the sound of a condom breaking? Oy gevalt, with the emptiness…"

"Hello, Mort," said Peter Griffin, entering the store with his wife Lois after Sunday Mass.

"Oh, hello, Peter. You see, I'm feeling very nervous today, as I've been thinking of how kids in middle school used to grab my ass and run with it all the way past the goal post in a healthy little game of smear the queer and then I had to make a quick stop at the ladies' restroom because I couldn't reach the men's room in time for my assdroppings to make their way out of my chocolate starfish. These have been very bad times for me."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Mort," said Lois.

"My, Lois, you look mighty radiant today," said Mort. "Could I interest you in our special new selection of shampoo and conditioner medleys over in aisle 12? I think you would find them extremely useful for your showering needs."

"No, thank you, Mort. Peter bought a year's supply of shampoo and conditioner with his earnings from the lawsuit against the Petercopter and Hindenpeter in March."

"Oh, God be praised!" said Mort. "And not the young, carpentry-learned God, just the older, more experienced one who never took human form and got involved with nails and Roman centurions."

"Thanks for the clarification," said Peter. "Lois claims that Optimus Prime and He-Man aren't gods, but both of us agree that John Ritter was at least a demigod."

"I never agreed to that idea," said Lois. "And even if I did, that's private information from our married life that I don't appreciate you sharing with secondary Quahog community members like Mort. Quagmire, Cleveland, and Joe are iffy enough."

"Peter, Lois, where are the kids?" asked Mort. "It would seem to me that you would encourage them to attend church as I often force my own son Neil to participate in Friday night services."

"Ah, my upper class twit of a father-in-law Carter Pewterschmidt has got them where he doesn't really want them in his decrepit Newport lakehouse," said Peter.

"Peter! Don't talk about Daddy like that!" screeched Lois. "Besides, the last time I visited the old lakehouse, they had done wondrous renovations to it."

"I had been trying to think of a new place to land the Petercopter! Lois, you're a genius!"

"But the kids are there! And Brian is too! You know how he hates the sound of the Petercopter! It's like fifteen thousand vacuum cleaners combined!"

"He hears the sound of a blender fifteen thousand times a day, so I think he'll be fine. Get it? Because he's an alcoholic?"

"Yes, he does have a wee bit of a drinking problem, but I've got to admit, you're no Sober Sammy either. We all have our faults, that's true. Like Marge Simpson of old, I play the cards like there's no tomorrow or next week. And Chris still wets the bed and hasn't gotten laid even when we placed seventeen hookers in his bedroom. He claimed that the evil monkey in his closet ate them before he could get a chance. Strange kid, that Chris."

"Don't get started on me," said Mort. "Every time I press porcelain against my skin, I break out in hives larger than the silicone hunks under Christie Brinkley's blouse."

"That's more information than we needed to know, Mort," said Lois, and left with Peter out of the pharmacy.

"I admit my social skills aren't up to par," said Mort, and began to sweep the pharmacy's dirty floor.


End file.
